


The Deeds of My Hand, the Oath on My Soul

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Angst, Deadfire AU, F/M, Gen, as in: an AU in which Deadfire happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 13:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18477145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: He has heard all kinds of stories about the old Watcher. Carefully, he crosses the threshold and enters what remains of Caed Nua, keeping his eyes and mind open, having a hundred theories about what he might expect. It turns out they have all been wrong.





	The Deeds of My Hand, the Oath on My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> (This is the last fic I wrote in January, when writing was still somewhat working.)

He has heard all kinds of stories about the old Watcher. Gone mad with grief, people say. Some explained it was because of the past – there are no ghosts as haunting as those living within one’s mind; as a cipher, he understands how terrible an Awakening can be, and can imagine what he does not know. Those of a more sensitive nature readily accept the chanters’ version of the tale, mentioning tragedies and lost love – romantic fools, all of them. The keep is in ruins, his mother said once when he asked about it – a more sensible and less cryptic answer than he expected; the grief of losing one’s home can be crushing. He has not experienced that, but any Dunryd Row agent has seen enough tragedies to comprehend that simple truth.

When he arrives at the crumbling gate of Caed Nua, he is not certain what really brought him here. The search for lost knowledge, first and foremost. Curiosity; yes, definitely. Perhaps the wish to prove them all wrong – he has seen enough Engwithan ruins in his life to know there is no such thing as finding all the answers. And if that is vanity, so be it. Though he prefers to just call it faith in his abilities. His mentor used to caution him against pride when he was younger, but since then they have both discovered it is something else – brutal honesty, deep self-awareness and detailed knowledge of the extent of his skills gained through years of testing.

There must have been other ciphers who tried to help the old Watcher, obviously. Even a child would know that finding something important in the ruins would require understanding Engwithan. So far, there have been no reports of a success – and none would boast of a failure, of course. Perhaps he will not succeed either, like everyone else – but he will at least know where he failed. And one can built even upon that.

Carefully, he crosses the threshold and enters what remains of Caed Nua, keeping his eyes and mind open, having a hundred theories about what he might expect. It turns out they have all been wrong.

The keep is little more than a pile of rubble, but the underground labyrinth underneath is vast enough to have remained partly intact. For a moment, the sight of the faded splendour of past ages makes him breathless. Engwithan mosaics on the floor and walls, all miracles of art even with some tiles missing. Adra lamps, fuelled with essence and magic, flooding everything with light which is both eerie and soothing at the same time. Traces of souls like whispers at the edge of his consciousness, gone before he can lean in to listen. Soft rustle of fabric dragging across the floor.

She looks like a ghost, Adhán thinks, frozen to the spot by fear that a sudden move would scare her. What remains of her robes looks like weaved of cobwebs and dust, her wrinkled face is pale, and her white hair seems almost glowing in the dimly-lit chamber.

For an instant, she stops, alarmed, shocked to see a living soul in her hideaway, ready to either strike at him or flee… And then she lets out a breath and the tension leaves her as well when she recognizes him as someone familiar. Not surprising; maybe he reminds her of someone from a past life.

He can study her more closely now. Her long fingers, wrapped around an adra medallion, seem brittle like too-thin twigs, little else than skin and bone, and she is gaunt, nothing like the ethereal beauty the chanters sing of. But she used to be, he can tell even now. Maybe it is because of her eyes – serene in their sadness, deep like twilight sky and sea at dawn, more piercing than adra.

Deeper than adra, too; two wells into the past. He can reach inside and take a handful of thoughts and watch them trickle between his fingers as they have slipped between hers. Brief moments of clarity, rarer and rarer with every year, every month. She is grateful for it; her grief is an ocean that has spilled over the borders of her soul and drowned her. Her memories – brief, shattered images are all he can glimpse, for some things are natural for a cipher, and he does not wish to go past her barriers uninvited – her memories are marred by sorrow, too, old woes as heavy as the new ones. They shattered her world in the past life – but now, contrasted with reality, they are so familiar it seems comforting.

The shock does not last long; in Dunryd Row, he has seen enough to understand why it would feel like that to her. The past – that is the grief she has dealt with, that she could carry. Having her home destroyed by the god she staunchly worshipped even after his presumed death – that was too much. That would be too much to anyone.

He withdraws from her thoughts and looks at her face. For an instant, when she lifts her head, it seems that she is _here_ and _now_ , but then she meets his gaze and her eyes glaze over as she sinks into a memory – and then he looks at her again and sees her as she remembers herself – a young girl with hair and soul like fire, and a smile sweet like pilgrim’s crown. He smiles back, involuntarily, as if it was a reflex – but honestly, too. There is something about this girl that makes him want to lie to her about the world, reassure her that it can be as bright as she so desperately wants to believe it can be.

“You’re back!” She runs forward, elated and earnest, and then stops abruptly, as if she did something she should not have. “You’re back,” she repeats, calmer, holding herself in check now. When she reaches for his hands, it seems almost like an official or ritual gesture, controlled and reserved – but her smile is blinding and she glows with happiness. “I’m so glad you returned earlier,” she whispers, her fingers gently pressing against his palms.

He has no idea who he is in her memories, seeing only his own reflection in her mind. It might be that she recognized his looks, not his soul. That is indeed the more probable explanation; she is a cipher, and must have been powerful once, but her scattered thoughts make it impossible to use her gift properly. And yet… She wants him to feel warm and welcome and it is working; she believes this memory is real and he almost does, too.

“I am glad as well,” he replies simply, trying to make his voice sound kind. He holds her hands carefully – he could easily count every small bone under her skin, but what he sees are the hands of a young girl, smooth and narrow, though not unused to work – wishing he could comfort her with a touch but afraid he might hurt her if he squeezed her palms. So instead, he bows his head and gently lifts her hands and kisses her fingers.

Her breath catches, and when he looks up there are tears in her eyes. Whoever he is to her, he has done something right – it should have been done long ago; that man she can still see now exists no longer, and it is too late – but he has done it and something has been mended.

She blinks and the tears rolls down her cheeks and he wipes them away, one by one, trying to shush her before she starts crying. Her eyes close and for a moment she stands still, clutching his hands to her chest with a soft smile that hurts to look at.

Suddenly, her eyes open. Her gaze is clear now, observant but not sharp, and yet piercing in its sorrow. The image he can see in her thoughts shifts, too – a young woman with a white braid and a broken heart.

Understanding washes over her like sunlight, burning, luminous, both sharp and soothing; she looks at him as if she has just unveiled a terrible and beautiful mystery. That hurts him, too; like an old wound on a rainy day, the dull pain still present even if he has long forgotten the cause.

“You don’t remember,” she says quietly, in wonder – affirms, not asks. She raises her hand, reaches up to touch his cheek but stops mid-motion and lets her hand fall, aware that to him, she is a stranger; that no matter what she recalls, he is someone else now.

“No,” he admits, feeling genuine regret; maybe if he knew, he could help her. He cannot. “I am sorry,” he adds softly, looking into her eyes, willing her to understand.

She chokes on a sob, pressing her hands against her mouth to stifle it – but her soul shines. At first, it is a candle, its flame small and feeble, and then it becomes a beacon of light, blinding, so bright it burns – like a brand pressed right into his soul.

Her form shimmers in his thoughts – white hair, red hair; eyes like storm, eyes like dawn – then white hair again, eyes like bruised, clouded sky but after a storm has passed. She hurts. She is happy. More than that; she is at peace at last. He can feel it – serenity, assurance; certainty that her grief was not for naught, that she made the right choice and that it was worth the heavy price she had to pay. The foolish songs were right, he realizes; only love can make kith accept such anguish willingly.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice very quiet but clear as she points at the dagger at his belt. “Please, end this while I remember all of myself.” She is a bird, finally let out of a cage – but she has been imprisoned there for so long her wings are too weak to let her fly again.

Adhán freezes. He… has been expecting it might come to that. But it seems wrong. “No.” He shakes his head. “We can do something,” he adds, with more confidence than he feels. “We can put things right if…”

“Don’t you see?” she interrupts softly. “You already have.”

When she finally touches his cheek, he is shocked to feel the bony fingers of an old woman, because in her mind, she is still young – marred by heartbreak, but not hopeless, filled with perhaps just as much sadness as she could bear, refusing to remember everything that happened later and broke her into pieces. He wonders if that pain he feels is hers, or whether one of those shards stabbed him through the soul. Wonders if he will carry her image there – not the old woman, but that luminous girl he can see in his mind.

It is her turn to shake her head. “Don’t,” she says gently, in reply to his thoughts; he has not even noticed she was reading them.

For a moment, he wants to ask her to wait for him, because he has questions, because he _wants_ to know. But that would be selfish – more so for she would selflessly agree. For a moment, he contemplates promising to find her in the next life – but that might not be possible. Not for her, not now. Not ever, if they do not find a way to fix the Wheel.

“Don’t,” she repeats, patiently. “Just…” _Be happy – breathe – find happiness – just…_ “Live.”

He nods. Then carefully helps her sit down, supporting her, holding her with one arm securely around her waist. He sinks down to the floor with her, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. She is so very light... Barely more than a memory.

What could he say now? Farewell? He does not want to. He wishes he could find her in her next life – their next lives. Maybe neither would remember. Or maybe they both would, but only the good things.

“I am glad I found you,” he says at last.

“I am… too…” she whispers, her voice breaking. And then she curls into him, hiding her face against his robe and neck, crying silently, her tears scalding on his skin. But still, she radiates light.

Softly, with utmost care, he extinguishes her soul, as if he was blowing out a candle, holding her and watching her fade. She sighs quietly, and then breathes no more.

He gently lays her to rest on the stone floor, covering her with his cloak. Carefully, he takes the adra medallion off her neck. There are some traces of her essence in the stone. Not much; much less than he hoped for. But it might be a start. He would ask her to guide him, but it would be nothing but empty words. Besides, she deserves to rest.

For a moment, while her soul lingers, he can still see her as she saw herself – white hair and serene face and eyes closed as if she was only sleeping. If it ever becomes possible again, perhaps in their next lives…

“Sleep in peace, Eidis,” he whispers, recalling her name from the tales.

If it ever becomes possible, perhaps one day he will wake her, Adhán promises himself, pulling an adra lamp off the wall and taking the first steps down, towards the lower levels of the Paths. Very selfish, thinking that, but… Many kith have symbols that remind them of the course they have to chart – gods, communities, ideals, the so-called greater good; families, friends, loved ones. He needs something, too, if he is to do his part well. Because they might make it only if they all stay focused.

And if they fail, perhaps he will join her in sleep. It feels selfish, too, but for some reason, even that future seems less terrifying with her in it.


End file.
